I’m from a town where nothing grows. Not trees or crops or animals. There are no farms that border the outskirts and the yards are plastered in fake grass because the dirt is completely barren. Even dandelions, who often make their homes in cracks and concrete jungles, can’t take root here. The rivers don’t flow and the lakes stand stagnant, and if I ever saw an animal, either domestic or wild, I might just have a heart attack.
If you were to go back in time 10, 20, 100 years, you wouldn’t be able to spot a single difference. The same businesses line the single street that makes up the entirety of downtown and the same families live in the same houses they always have. No one ever comes and no one ever leaves. No mail or deliveries, no visitors, no travellers just passing through; yet the supermarket is always stocked and the flower shop always has freshly cut roses.
But the worst part is that this state of stasis goes beyond the physicalities of the town. Even the people stagnate, frozen in time and frozen in mind. No one seems to notice that the day never turns to night or that their barren gardens never bloom. They think the same thing and say the same phrases and no one ever notices.
The days blend together like an over-saturated watercolour painting. I’m not sure if it’s been many days or just one long one. I can’t pick out a single one from my memory, yet I can always remember everything I said and did, not because of the brilliance of my memory, but because I’m stuck in the same endless cycle as everyone else.
Mrs. Lawrence walks the sidewalk in front of my house, a baby on her hip and another in her belly. She’s been pregnant for as long as I’ve known her, and her son, Little Bill, hasn’t aged a day past 2 years old. I don’t know why he’s called “Little Bill;” as far as I can remember there’s never been a “Big Bill” to necessitate a nickname to differentiate them.
“Wonderful day,” she greets, with a tip of her oversized hat like always. She looks tired. I suppose it’s the pregnancy. I take a long sip of my peppermint tea and lean forward in my rocking chair before I speak.
“Yes, very,” I reply for the hundredth time. “How’ve you been?” It slips from my lips before I can think about it, before I can remind myself that I know the answer. I think it’s a habit at this point.
“Oh, this pregnancy will be the death of me,” she gives me a mirthful smile that barely hides her exhaustion, the same smile she gives me every day. “She should be here any day now, thank the lord.”
Honestly, I think I’d be more surprised if “any day now” ever came.
I can’t remember when or how I got here, and when I think about it, my head hurts. For all I know, I could have always been here. Maybe I am wrong to question everything. After all, no one seems concerned but me.
Maybe this is all there is. I think that’s what scares me the most.
But I found this phone. I don’t know how I know what it is; I’ve never seen one before I don’t think, but I found it hidden in a box under my floorboards with a note that said to pay attention and ever since I did I noticed that this is a town where nothing ever grows. I don’t know why I never noticed it before, but as soon as you look, it hits you all at once. And once you see it, you can’t stay.
I tried to leave. I walked and walked until my feet bled, until my body gave out and I fell to the hot sand and cried. I’ve walked the entire perimeter, crossed every bridge and travelled every road, but you can only get so far until…
I sit in the old rocking chair on my porch, the same one that’s always been there. A cup of my favourite tea sits on the table beside me, filling the air with the comforting aroma of peppermint. I hear the click-clack of Mrs. Lawrence’s heeled shoes coming down the sidewalk.
“Wonderful day,” her honeyed voice pierces my eardrums like a bullet.
I clutch my teacup, feeling the hot ceramic burning my flesh. “Yes, very,” I hear myself reply.
She offers me a small smile as she continues on her way. Her back is to me when my mouth opens. The words fall out sounding hurried and frantic.
“Don’t you ever try to leave?”
Her light footsteps stop, and she stands still for a moment, so long that I think maybe she didn’t hear me. When she looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes are cold and distant, her perfectly painted lips are pulled into a tight line.
“Every damn day.”